Out the Door
by Visinata
Summary: Baz is hurt, Simon is helping him. No one is happy. But they both care about each other so much. It's in the little things. aka: Communicating is a challenge when you're full of gryphon venom. Written for Day 11 of the Carry On Countdown (Angst)


BAZ

If only 15 year old Baz could see me now. I'm lying in Snow's bed, shirt off, trousers unzipped. Simon is bending over me, running his hands over my chest and stomach, grunting occasionally in concentration. This is exactly where I've been trying to get back to for months. Get back to—that's a laugh. I was never here to begin with. I've been trying to get here. Period. I squeeze my eyes closed tighter. This feels like it's farther than we've ever gotten before.

I imagine he's just a breath away from closing the distance to my mouth for one of the intoxicating kisses I can only barely remember, that if I open my eyes, he'll be staring down at me with pupils blown, hair sticking in sweaty curls to his forehead. Maybe he'll even be smiling at me.

I know I shouldn't open my eyes. I'll just be disappointed. But I'm a constant disappointment to myself, so I do. Or rather, I try to. They're crusted shut from the blood that ran down my forehead and pooled before it dried. It seems Snow thought the head wound was less pressing than the mean slash running from my chest to my lower abdomen.

I suppose that makes sense. The gryphon was probably venomous.

I give it another go and manage to pry one eye open this time, then the other.

Simon is not smiling.

His eyebrows are drawn together in the middle and he's biting on the side of his bottom lip while he works, dabbing something cold onto my skin.

I lift my head an inch for a better view, and his hands still.

"Baz," he says, looking up at my face.

I grunt. Charming.

"You're awake."

It's an effort to clear my throat enough to grate out, "Well observed, Snow."

He purses his mouth, then opens it as if to say something, but closes it again and goes back to poking at my lower abdomen with something that smells heavily of antiseptic and Bunce's magic.

So, we're still not talking then.

Not that we specifically aren't speaking to each other. It's just that we've been busy since we returned from America. We're on call at the drop of a hat—all four of us, even Agatha's become reluctantly involved—to go running off to Watford whenever the next wave of monsters shows up, and then we're all so knackered in between that it's curry and telly and no energy for conversation.

And also, I'm afraid of what Snow will say to me if I bring up the subject of us. I think he's tried bringing it up himself more than once, but every time he ends up closing his eyes, and his mouth, and looking away.

Maybe he's afraid too. But of what? Of losing me? Or of the awkwardness of pointing out that I've already overstayed my welcome? Whatever it is, I don't want to know.

I watch him while he works. His wings are free, held taught behind him, tense and out of the way. They're lovely. Everything about him is lovely. I don't know how much longer I can stay conscious. I think there was venom in the claw that raked across my chest. I can feel the fire sinking into my skin, my muscles, my bones. I can feel myself slipping. The world is growing black around the edges.

I'm in Simon's bed. This is just where I've wanted to be for months. He's leaning over me.

I shake my head and it clears, just a little. I am where I've wanted to be, but not like this.

"Hey there, it's okay. You're okay now." Simon's thumb is on my face, wiping a tear off of my cheek.

I'm lying in Simon's bed and he's bending over me. I'm crying. Why am I crying?

It must be, I think, because I'm actually not okay. I want to tell him that. I want to tell him to stop working down where I can barely see him and stay up here with me. I need to tell him to stay. But now I can't get my voice to work.

Simon hears me trying to clear my throat.

"Are you thirsty?"

I nod.

"You lost a lot of blood. I wonder— wait here a minute."

As if I could go anywhere. As if I'd want to.

He's gone for more than a minute. When he returns, he's holding a mug with a straw in one hand and something blue in the other.

"I bought this a while ago," he says, stepping towards the bed. His bed. I'm lying in it.

"It's been in the freezer. It's— sorry it's not fresh. It'll be better than nothing though."

He holds the mug out to me and I take it, awkwardly, because I'm still lying down. And because my arms feel like lead weights.

He's used the straw Fiona gave me, thank Crowley—the reusable one made of Icelandic unicorn horn (the endangered kind) that has suck this, environmentalists engraved on the side. I murmur a quick spell and it changes shape so I can drink from the position I'm in, flat on my back. It's blood—pig's blood, by the taste—and a little bit clumpy from being warmed on the stove. It does make me feel a bit better. Clears my head, and also my throat.

When I finish, he takes the cup from me and sets the handful of blue on my chest.

It's my mother's scarf.

"What—?" I begin, my voice is a rough croak.

"It was in your pocket."

"Oh."

"What were you doing with it?" he asks.

"Must've still been there. From the trip."

He cocks his head and squints at me, but doesn't say anything.

He's right to be suspicious. Of course it wasn't still there from the trip. I had it with me because I was lonely. Fighting daily by Snow's side and feeling like little more than an accomplice—a conveniently fast and deadly sidekick—while everything between us hovers precariously unresolved hasn't done anything good for my self esteem.

"Well, it was covered in blood," Simon says.

I lift the scarf gingerly with one hand. It isn't covered in blood now. It's spotless.

"Did Bunce use a spell?" I ask.

"Nah." He shakes his head. "Cleaned it myself. By hand."

"That must have taken hours. This is silk."

He shrugs.

I flex my empty hand, lying beside me on the bed, I hope he understands it's an invitation.

Snow looks at my hand, then away.

"I'm done patching you up. I'll leave you to rest."

I whimper. I don't mean to, but once the sound escapes me I hope he'll hear it and know he needs to come back. He needs to stay with me.

He shuts off the light as he walks out the door.

I shouldn't be surprised. Or disappointed.

I'm ashamed to admit that I'm both. The fog is back in my head and I think I'm about to fall asleep. Or perhaps I'm passing out again. There might have been venom in that gryphon's claw.

When I come to, Simon's there, sitting in a chair pulled up to the side of the bed. I brace myself to sit up, but Simon's already got his palm on my shoulder, gently holding me where I am, flat on his mattress.

"No you don't. You shouldn't move for a while," his voice is soft, tender, like it's just the two of us alone in the world having a private moment. Or, I suppose, like he's in a sick room. That's what it is; it's not tender, it's a sick room. I can't roll my eyes properly. They're still crusted with my blood. Simon sees me trying though, and leaves the room again. All I want is for him to stay by my side, and I keep getting it wrong.

But he's back in less than a minute with a damp flannel. He wipes it gently across my eyes. It's warm. He keeps on wiping until the dry, crusty feeling is gone and I can move my eyes properly again.

"There you go, you miserable sod, you can roll your eyes at me now."

I use my new freedom of motion to side-eye him from where I'm lying, without moving my head. He's halfway to the door again, lip twitched up at the corner, blood-covered flannel in hand.

"I'll go wash up," he says, waving the flannel in the general direction of the kitchen.

"Don't," I say.

He hesitates. He's at the door now, one foot already out.

With a supreme effort I lift my whole arm up off the mattress and reach out to him. I put everything I have into it.

I must have finally gotten it right because he walks back over to the bed and takes my hand in his. His thumb rubs gently across my knuckles once, back and forth.

I wait for him to sit down beside me again. To stay. He doesn't.

Instead he squeezes my hand, tightly, then says, "I've got cleaning up to do, and you're fine now."

I make a low, objecting sound in the back of my throat.

"Or, you will be. You don't need me in here hovering over you."

I do.

He waves the flannel again, repeats, "I've got cleaning up to do," and turns his back on me before striding out the door.

As I drift in and out of consciousness I wonder if the pain in my chest is venom—I think that gryphon was venomous—or if it's my heart breaking.


End file.
